


every ribbon used to tie yourself to me

by wordstruck



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Accidental Bondmark, Alpha Ushijima Wakatoshi, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cunnilingus, Dubious Consent, Hurt/Comfort, Knotting, M/M, Omega Oikawa Tooru, Omegaverse, Open/happy ending, PIV Sex, mild afab language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:01:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26087617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordstruck/pseuds/wordstruck
Summary: Ushijima is aware his gaze isn’t subtle (possessive, lingering,hungry), and his scent crackles through the air, but it doesn’t matter. What does matter is that the other boys leave Oikawa alone.If it makes Oikawa’s own gaze flit over to him; if Oikawa looks at him sometimes, curious and furious all at once; if it draws the omega’s attention, means their eyes meet across the gym time and time again—Ushijima is not above claiming these moments for himself.(mind the tags. additional warnings in notes.)
Relationships: Oikawa Tooru/Ushijima Wakatoshi
Comments: 20
Kudos: 569





	every ribbon used to tie yourself to me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pridwen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pridwen/gifts).



> written as a comm for [@ehan](https://twitter.com/ehangwenn)! the request was for ushioi omegaverse, where ushijima and oikawa end up fucking after a match and ushijima accidentally bonds with oikawa.
> 
>  **CONTENT WARNINGS**  
>  note: oikawa does consent to sex (albeit under mildly dubious circumstances). the bondmark is dubcon territory but resolved in the end. this doesn't reach noncon territory, but be mindful while reading! character ages are vague and unspecified.
> 
> edited as best as i can, but further errors will be fixed! title is from sober by lorde. i hope you guys like the fic XD it's my first time writing ushioi, but i had fun.

* * *

Oikawa smells intoxicating.

Ushijima knows Oikawa’s scent well by now. Years of playing against each other, of practice matches and competitions, means Ushijima has long become familiar with heady citrus and spice. Even with suppressants required for tournaments, Oikawa has never shied away from flaunting his scent, using it to draw attention to himself on the court.

Not that he’s ever had to try very hard to catch Ushijima’s attention.

Today, though — it’s the first day of their joint training camp ahead of the Interhigh. Shiratorizawa has invited Aoba Johsai, Wakutani Minami, and Kesenike West for a two-week long camp for the summer. Tendou thinks it’s pointless — he feels Seijoh is the only school that could feasibly give them a challenge — while Semi argues that it’s good for testing new combinations and attacks. Ushijima just cares about getting to play volleyball.

The Seijoh team arrived a little late; everyone else has already settled in, either in their rooms or in the gym. Seijoh’s assistant coach is apologizing to Coach Washijo, while a little ways away Ushijima can see Iwaizumi yelling at Oikawa for something. Oikawa himself looks unrepentant, making a face before turning away to retrieve his things from the bus.

He also looks—

It might be the late afternoon sun, the pink-bleeding-blue sky and the warm light; it might be Ushijima's attraction to the omega setter, his long-standing infatuation. But when Ushijima’s gaze snags on Oikawa and the bronze flecks in his hair, the broad stretch of his back, he feels — caught. Fixated.

Then the team walks past them to settle into their designated rooms. Ushijima inhales orange and bergamot and nutmeg. There’s an edge to it, an undertone that Ushijima can’t place until he remembers how Shirabu had smelled when he’d returned from a four-day absence.

 _Heat._ Oikawa smells fresh out of heat.

There’s an answering warmth that pools in Ushijima’s gut, curdling low and deep. He feels a tension settle along the latitude of his shoulders, creeping down his spine. His eyes follow Oikawa as the omega walks across the gym, trailing citrus and _want_ in his wake. His jaw clenches, and a growl forms at the back of his throat as he—

Apple and cinnamon bloom sharp in his vicinity, and Tendou steps into his space. His hand splays on Ushijima’s chest, pressing just hard enough to be felt.

“ _Down,_ alpha,” he murmurs, smirking.

Ushijima’s gaze snaps to him, lips ready to pull back in a snarl. But the apple-cinnamon scent fades, and Tendou’s fingers dig in just a bit harder. His eyes flick up to Ushijima’s, and though he’s still smiling, Ushijima can see flint at the edges of his expression. He forces himself to inhale, hold, exhale. Repeat.

Across the gym, the Seijoh team has left. Ushijima’s eyes linger on the door a moment longer before he turns away and returns to practice.

That is not the last of the issue.

Oikawa at a distance is a distraction. Oikawa up close — sheen of sweat on his skin, pretty flush over his cheeks; bitten-red lips parted as he catches his breath after footwork drills — is a personal form of torture. Ushijima feels his attention dragged almost unwillingly to the setter time and time again. He’s been attracted to Oikawa a long time, has wanted everything of him, but the _scent_ of him now — the way he looks — Ushijima is drawn in, seized; magnetized like solar wind.

He’s not the only one.

The other alphas and betas are clearly taking notice; it’s hard not to, when an omega smells the way Oikawa does. He’s not even trying to suppress it, no patches or collars. The faint scent of citrus permeates the air around him, lingering where he’d been a few moments before. Almost a provocation.

Despite their obvious irritation at their setter’s antics, Iwaizumi and Matsukawa still place themselves between Oikawa and players from other teams. Anyone not headed off by Iwaizumi’s admittedly impressive scowls is then left to catch sight of one other alpha glaring. Ushijima is aware his gaze isn’t subtle (possessive, lingering, _hungry_ ), and his scent crackles through the air, but it doesn’t matter. What does matter is that the other boys leave Oikawa alone.

If it makes Oikawa’s own gaze flit over to him; if Oikawa looks at him sometimes, curious and furious all at once; if it draws the omega’s attention, means their eyes meet across the gym time and time again—

Ushijima is not above claiming these moments for himself.

Three days into training camp, everything shifts.

Contrary to popular belief, Ushijima is no stranger to frustration. He knows the pain of defeat, knows the sting of failure. He knows the quick fracture of anger and the slow bloom of disappointment. It’s why he’s pushed his strength to his limits; he never wants to lose again.

(Volleyball is a game of absolutes: one winner, one loser. Ball to the floor for a point. Twenty-five points to a set. Two sets to victory.)

The practice matches start. The teams rotate, facing off for a set each. Ushijima fights to maintain his concentration whenever Seijoh stands across the net. He’s more than an alpha; he’s the team’s ace, and he’s here to carry them to each win.

He does just that every time. By the end of the third day, they’ve only lost once.

There’s a storm in Oikawa’s scent now, something caustic, the ozone of a lightning strike. Frustration turns citrus sour and sharp, but no less intense or alluring. Ushijima can almost taste it at the back of his throat as Oikawa stalks past him, head held high, chin raised in defiance. Five consecutive set losses to Shiratorizawa will not make him fold.

Oikawa disappears down the corridor, presumably to go cool off. His team heads in the opposite direction, dispersing now that the day’s training is done, although Iwaizumi hesitates at the door. In the end, he too departs, likely thinking it better to leave Oikawa alone for the moment.

Ushijima, though—

There’s a tug in his chest, one that’s existed since he first met Oikawa on the other side of a volleyball court. It pulls at him even now. And he probably shouldn’t — his judgement is compromised — being around Oikawa always means _danger,_ means risks and temptation — but as with everything Oikawa Tooru, Ushijima finds himself helpless.

He follows the tug and the scent down past the bathrooms, round the corner to a storage room that contains spare floor mats and old tarps. Oikawa has his hands braced against the wall, shoulders hunched and head bowed. He startles at the sound of the door clicking shut.

“Iwa—”

Ushijima sees the moment Oikawa realizes it’s not his friend in the room; there’s no mistaking the scent. Those broad shoulders go rigid, posture snapping straight as Oikawa turns around.

“What do you want, Ushiwaka-chan?” he asks, grin too rigid to be anywhere near pleasant.

Ushijima frowns. “I came to see if you were all right.”

Something flashes across Oikawa’s face, a there-and-gone-again that Ushijima can’t read. But the sour-sweet fragrance dissipates a little, even as Oikawa’s smile widens.

“Just peachy,” he answers, flashing a peace sign. “Might be a little tired.”

He’s lying, of course, and both of them know it. Ushijima’s frown deepens as he steps forward, studying the stiff planes of Oikawa’s face. His hand lifts, but one warning glance from Oikawa stops his movements.

“You are,” he starts, then pauses, mouth pinched. “Your scent is — not right.”

This time Oikawa actually flinches, looking genuinely surprised before his expression twists. “And what would _you_ know about my scent, you big alpha brute?”

Ushijima hesitates at that, mouth half open, frozen under Oikawa’s glare. He licks his lips and doesn’t miss the way Oikawa’s eyes almost unwillingly track the motion.

“You have been,” he admits, “quite the distraction.”

(Always a distraction, for much of Ushijima’s life. The way Oikawa looks on the court, proud and defiant, a force in and of himself; the way he plays, all deft touches and perfect control. That undeniable skill that Ushijima covets — not for himself, but to have alongside him, to push him higher. Yes, Oikawa has always distracted him, commanded Ushijima’s attention.

And Ushijima has wanted him, all of him; wanted to sink in his teeth and have Oikawa all to himself.)

Oikawa blinks, once, twice. Then his mouth curls up in cat-canary amusement. “Have I?” he asks, tilting his head. “Has the big bad alpha been thrown off by my scent? You could have shown that more on the court. I would’ve liked watching you fuck up because of me.”

There’s a blatant taunt there, bait dangled on a string, but Ushijima doesn’t take it. Irritation lingers in Oikawa’s scent, a deep and biting frustration, but there’s something new as well and it’s drawing Ushijima in. He steps forward again — Oikawa steps back, gaze unyielding — both of them in a careful, fragile dance. Tentative, uncertain, and yet inevitably falling together. 

When Oikawa’s back hits the wall, with Ushijima looming over him, the air between them fractures.

“I want—” Ushijima’s voice falters. He licks his lips again. Oikawa’s next exhale comes out shaky. “Will you let me—”

“What makes you think I’d let you near me,” Oikawa hisses, but his voice wavers. His hands come up, crumpling Ushijima’s shirt, but he doesn’t push the alpha away.

“I will not ask for anything else — just let me—”

Ushijima cuts himself off. His breathing is loud in the empty room. His hands tremble with the effort of restraining himself, but he knows he has to behave. He has to be _good_ for his omega, if he wants Oikawa to let him come nearer — to lean in close — he won’t touch, he’ll be good. He just wants—

Oikawa’s fists clench, pulling Ushijima scant millimeters forward. Then slowly — ever so slightly — he turns his head, baring his scent gland.

It’s all the invitation Ushijima needs.

He barely stops himself from surging forward, from crowding Oikawa to the wall and burying his face in the crook of that slender neck. It takes all his discipline, years of self-control, to limit his movements to a small shift forward, tipping his balance until the two of them are inches apart. Ushijima telegraphs his motions, ducking his head to carefully, reverently, nudge his nose just under Oikawa’s jaw.

Citrus and spice flood his senses, heady and intoxicating. Ushijima parts his lips and tastes orange and bergamot on his tongue. He knows he’s scenting heavily as well, fresh-turned earth and rain filling the room. He dares to brush his mouth over Oikawa’s scent gland, and feels as much as hears the omega’s sharp inhale. Oikawa’s hands tighten around fabric, tugging Ushijima just a little closer.

“Alpha,” he whines, plaintive and sweet, and Ushijima is lost.

He pins Oikawa to the wall, pressing an open mouth to the throb of Oikawa’s pulse. The _taste_ of him — salt-sweat and skin and tart orange — goes right to Ushijima’s head. Oikawa gasps, shudders under him, and Ushijima feels his own scent spike in response. The air sparks in the scant space between them, spiced citrus mingling with rain and earth. There’s no denying their arousal, not with the way it blankets them like fog, and Ushijima wants, he wants, he _wants_.

Oikawa’s nails drag down his torso. Ushijima bites the other boy’s shoulder. Hands wander as Ushijima sucks a hickey just under Oikawa’s scent gland, making him cry out. The loud sound jolts them apart, and for a moment they stare at each other, breathless and flustered.

Then Oikawa’s hands return to his chest, and Ushijima doesn’t wait to find out if he’s going to be pushed away or pulled in. He closes his hand on the back of Oikawa’s neck and drags him into a kiss.

It’s heated and filthy from the get-go; Ushijima teases Oikawa’s mouth open, ignoring the muffled noise the other boy makes. He shoves Oikawa back against the wall, caging him in, scenting the air heavily. And perhaps he’s taking advantage of an omega fresh out of heat, overwhelmed by an aroused alpha. But Oikawa is _here,_ now, body pressed against Ushijima’s and smelling so sweet. Better men than Ushijima would be on their knees.

He shoves his hands under Oikawa’s shirt, spanning a taut waist in a bruising grip. He hauls Oikawa against him, slotting one thigh between the omega’s legs and — _fuck,_ Oikawa’s already wet, shorts damp with slick. Ushijima feels slim hips jerk, rutting against his thigh as Oikawa helplessly chases the friction and Ushijima wants to know that he’s _aching_ for it, that he feels empty, that he wants _Ushijima_ to be the one to fill him up.

(Ushijima knows what he wants. He’s never wanted anything more.)

The kiss breaks so Ushijima can yank Oikawa’s shirt off, leaving his hair a tousled mess. There’s a flush that starts on high cheekbones and creeps all the way down to the omega’s chest. Ushijima bends down, tracing it with his mouth as he tugs Oikawa’s shorts lower. He follows pink-stained skin until he _is_ on his knees, littering open-mouthed kisses over Oikawa’s navel and letting damp fabric fall to the omega’s feet.

“Ushi—” Oikawa gasps, clutching at Ushijima’s shoulders. “Ushi — Waka — wait, _wait_ —”

But any patience Ushijima has is worn thin and wearing thinner with every hitch in Oikawa’s breath, every tiny whimper and sharp gasp. He turns his eyes upward, gazing reverently up Oikawa’s body before pressing a heated kiss to the omega’s pelvis. He can smell slick and citrus, thick on his tongue, and there’s little reason not to chase its source. He nudges Oikawa’s legs apart and leans in, pressing his mouth to sticky fabric and sucking _hard._

Oikawa keens at that, fingers immediately tangling in Ushijima’s hair to keep him in place. Ushijima’s more than happy to comply, burying his face between Oikawa’s legs and doing everything he can think to pleasure him. He’s probably more than a little clumsy, chalked up to inexperience, but he hopes to make up with enthusiasm. He pulls away only long enough to yank down Oikawa’s boxers, to skim his palms up bare thighs and kiss worship into warm skin. Then Oikawa tugs at his hair, _whines_ , and Ushijima smirks, dipping back in. And the _taste_ of the other boy, god. Sweet, intoxicating slick smears over Ushijima’s cheeks and chin as he eats Oikawa out, slipping his tongue between wet folds, suckling at his swollen clit, using just a hint of teeth to make Oikawa’s voice crack in three places as he cries out.

When Oikawa comes, it’s with two of Ushijima’s fingers teasing his entrance. Slick drops all over the alpha’s hand as he works Oikawa through it, feeling the omega tremble under his touch.

“Fuck, _fuck,_ ” Oikawa whines, curling away from the wall as he tries to catch his breath. “Stupid fucking alpha, I can’t feel my legs, _fuck_ —”

Ushijima chuckles, voice hoarse and jaw sore. He rises to his feet, wincing slightly as his legs straighten. Oikawa’s scowl is frankly ruined by how debauched he looks — flushed and sweaty, bottom lip puffy from digging his teeth into it in a fruitless attempt to be quiet. Ushijima can feel a thrum of dark satisfaction that _he_ did that — he made Oikawa look like this — he’s turned this omega into a trembling mess.

He dives in for another kiss and feels Oikawa melt into it, high plaintive noise at the back of the omega’s throat. Soft-wing fingers tug at Ushijima’s varsity jacket, wrestling it off him, and the alpha goes with it eagerly. He shoves the garment into Oikawa’s arms, then reaches overhead to yank his shirt off in one motion. The whimper he’s rewarded with goes right to his cock.

“Turn around,” he commands, strained, and then, “please.”

But Oikawa — pretty, bratty, infuriating Oikawa — just smiles at him and replies, “I don’t think I want to.”

Ushijima feels a snarl of frustration at the back of his throat, and Oikawa _laughs,_ breathless and playful. Ushijima bares his teeth in a growl, tugging the omega away from the wall so he can wrestle the Shiratorizawa jacket onto him. Oikawa doesn’t resist, but he doesn’t make it any easier for Ushijima either. It’s a little too big — Ushijima has wider shoulders, a broader back — but just looking at the sight—

“Is this a kink?” Oikawa taunts, as if Ushijima can’t _smell_ the arousal on him. “You couldn’t get me to come to Shiratorizawa so you’re going to make me wear your gross sweaty uniform instead, as if—”

Ushijima cuts him off with a kiss, reaching down to fumble his own shorts and briefs to mid-thigh. He hisses as he pulls his cock out, hard and aching. It slips between Oikawa’s legs as he crowds the omega back against the wall, rutting his hips just a little, and any mischief disappears as Oikawa moans. His thighs part, letting the alpha’s cock rub at his folds. Ushijima jerks forward hard enough to nudge the head against the entrance.

Both of them make harsh, strangled noises; Ushijima digs his fingers into Oikawa’s hips. It almost hurts to hold back, to not go ahead and bury himself in warm, waiting heat. But he grits his teeth and presses his face into Oikawa’s shoulder, holding still. He’ll be good.

“Let me—” he gasps out, and Oikawa tells him _please._

Oikawa is no slender little omega, but Ushijima still lifts him easily enough, pinning him to the wall and slotting between his legs. Oikawa’s arms wind around his shoulders, threading through short hair and tugging, making the alpha groan. He grips Oikawa’s thighs as he slides in, jaw clenched at the _feel_ of it, tight and warm and slick. He’s dizzy with the sensation, with the scent of citrus and nutmeg, with _Oikawa._

“ _Move,_ ” Oikawa demands, and Ushijima snaps his hips forward.

It’s worship, it’s heaven; it’s everything Ushijima has fantasized on the nights he lets his mind wander, alone in a dorm room and dreaming of orange spice. He glances up and Oikawa tilts his head obligingly, mouths catching in a clumsy kiss. Ushijima fucks into him, thrusts hard and deep, again and again and again and Oikawa comes while muffling a scream against the alpha’s shoulder. Ushijima half-shouts as the omega clenches around him, feels the knot forming at the base of his cock.

“ _Tooru_ —” he chokes out, fighting the urge to sink in to the hilt, to hold Oikawa in place and _come._ “Tooru, tell me — I need — can I — _omega_ —”

“I—” Oikawa’s barely coherent, almost crying and so pretty, so _wrecked._ “Alpha—”

Ushijima kisses him hard just as he shoves his knot into Oikawa’s tight heat, and he comes.

And then, overwhelmed and half-drunk on the feeling of Oikawa around him, underneath him — the _scent_ of him, almost like he’s in heat — the way his voice fractures as he says _Wakatoshi_ —

Ushijima turns his head and sinks his teeth into Oikawa’s throat.

When he comes to his senses, there’s a dull ache under his jaw, an echo of arousal and distress that isn’t his own. His tongue feels thick with citrus, tangy and sharp. Oikawa’s whimpering, shoving lightly at his chest, letting out soft, breathless sobs. 

Ushijima jerks back in shock, almost dropping Oikawa as he pulls away, barely remembering to let the omega down to his feet. Oikawa wobbles and Ushijima reaches out to catch him, but stops when the omega flinches back. There’s another throb on his neck, and Ushijima’s eyes snap to the lightly-scabbed scar on Oikawa’s throat.

A bondmark.

Ice floods Ushijima’s veins as he realizes — he hadn’t meant to, that wasn’t what he — he hadn’t wanted that coming here — he’s bonded to Oikawa, _fuck_ , he didn’t—

“ _Tooru_ ,” he says, shameful and contrite. “Tooru, I—”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Oikawa seethes, head bowed and voice tight, “ _call me that._ ”

Ushijima winces, withdrawing to give Oikawa space. “I am sorry. I should not have — let me help you clean up, at least — I can—”

“No.” Oikawa shakes his head, curling in on himself. His hands close around the front of Ushijima’s training jacket, tugging it around him in an attempt to cover up. He’s smothered in Ushijima’s scent, and a dark corner of Ushijima’s mind thinks _good._

( _He’s mine._ )

Oikawa snarls as if he’d sensed that, and maybe he had, because Ushijima feels a spike of anger hit him. He feels the splinters and ice bloom in his throat, but he knows he has no right to act without Oikawa’s permission. So he simply closes his hands into fists and nods.

“What—” He clears his throat, looking down. “What should I do?”

There is a pointed, horrible pause before Oikawa tells him, quietly, “Leave.”

Ushijima hesitates a little, before picking his clothes up. He dresses in silence, trying to ignore the scent of a distressed omega. But he knows he is not wanted here, not right now, so he simply says, “Let me know if you require anything.”

The click of the door shutting is too loud as he leaves.

.o0o.

Oikawa feels absolutely _mortified._

Bad enough that he let things go as far as they had; bad enough that he let Ushijima pin him against a wall, scent him, _fuck_ him. Oikawa can’t deny that he wanted it; can’t deny that perhaps this afternoon was just the culmination of years of on-court battles and off-court tension, spiraling out of control. He knows his attraction to Ushijima as much as he hates it, although he’s always chalked it up to _stupid omega hormones._ But what had just happened — that had been just as much his choice as Ushijima’s, and he can only blame so much of it on his post-heat state.

He’d wanted it — had wanted Ushijima to bend him over and fill him up. Had wanted to be fucked so hard he’d feel it for a week.

But this—

Oikawa feels the throb of his scent gland as he sneaks into the showers, avoiding both teammates and other players alike. It's thankfully empty, but he still takes the furthest stall just in case. The cool water is a blessing, grounding him as he tries to gather his thoughts and sort them all out.

He’s bonded. With Ushijima. This goes beyond a relationship or even marriage — this is something more permanent, half-impossible to undo. He’s seventeen and he’s only been on six real dates and he’s _bonded._

Oikawa silently sinks to the floor of the shower stall, trying not to let his scent spread everywhere.

He has to be rational about this. Does he _like_ Ushijima? Yes and no. He has a begrudging respect for the other boy’s skill, his undeniable on-court strength. And he’d be an idiot not to realize Ushijima is attractive. He knows he’s felt drawn to the alpha, but has always insisted the attraction was purely biological and nothing deeper. And perhaps on some level it is — Ushijima is a powerful alpha, the kind any omega would be lucky to have — but in other ways, Oikawa might just—

Oikawa thunks his head against the wall and groans. 

Does he _hate_ Ushijima? Yes and no. Ushijima Wakatoshi is the wall of impossibility that Oikawa has been trying to overcome since he’d set foot on a competitive volleyball court. He’s the embodiment of everything Oikawa stands against on principle, the idea that pure unbridled power beats everything out, that there is only one path to victory. And all the times he’d wounded Oikawa’s pride — the dismissals of Oikawa’s teammates, his choices, his _agency_ — the unyielding belief that the only way to win is by playing on the _strongest team_ —

One hand fumbles up, shutting off the shower. Oikawa’s skin has gone pruney from sitting under the running water for ages, but he’s nowhere near calm. His thoughts are a muddled mess, contradicting and chasing each other. And honestly, he’s too tired to keep thinking.

Oikawa clumsily gets himself dressed, then slips into Seijoh’s assigned sleeping room. His teammates are thankfully mostly asleep, although Iwaizumi looks up groggily as he slides into his futon. His best friend undoubtedly senses something different in his scent, but Oikawa mouths _tomorrow_ and Iwaizumi thankfully just nods. Still, the air subtly fills with warm sandalwood and vanilla. Oikawa smiles under his blanket, feeling some of his tension ease.

He drifts off to his best friend’s scent and the echo of a quiet affection, stealing over a newly-formed bond.

When Oikawa shows up to breakfast wearing a collar, everyone looks bemused but nobody questions it.

It’s not his first time wearing one to practice; far from it. He wears the scent-suppressant collar when he’s in pre-heat, or in competitions, both as a courtesy and as a safeguard. But showing up with it four days into training camp understandably arouses some suspicion. Matsukawa and Hanamaki raise their eyebrows, but don’t press. Yahaba frowns.

Seated at the other end of the table, Iwaizumi’s brow furrows as he asks, “You all right?”

Oikawa shrugs, making a face. “Too many alphas,” he replies, and fortunately his best friend seems to accept this. The bondmark still feels raw under the stiff fabric, but at least it’s hidden.

“Good,” Iwaizumi grumbles, turning back to his food. “We’re not your bodyguards.”

“Aw.” Oikawa bats his eyelashes and grins, pressing into Iwaizumi’s side. “But Iwa-chan is supposed to protect me!”

Whatever retort Iwaizumi has is lost in the sudden wave of _fury_ that crashes through Oikawa, catching him so off-guard he flinches. Beside him, Iwaizumi startles, hands coming up to anchor Oikawa, but the omega doesn’t pay him any mind. His eyes are immediately pulled in the direction of the alpha scowling at them. Ushijima’s jealousy bleeds over their bond, making Oikawa’s breath stick in his throat.

Then just as quickly, it dissipates. Ushijima visibly winces, grimacing, and tears his gaze away from the omega. All at once it feels like Oikawa can breathe again, and he feels the soft pulse of an apology. His shoulders go slack, lips parting on an exhale.

That was — god, was this always going to be — so _overwhelming_ —

“—kawa!” Iwaizumi’s voice breaks through his thoughts, and Oikawa belatedly realizes his best friend is shaking him. “Earth to Shittykawa. What the fuck’s with you?”

“Nothing, Iwa-chan,” he replies, shaking his head before pulling up a winning smile. Fuck no, he isn’t ready to talk about this yet, and especially not here. He pats Iwaizumi on the thigh, not-so-subtly removing himself from the other boy’s grip. “It’s fine. Just thinking.”

Iwaizumi squints at him for a few moments before sighing, sharp and exasperated. “Don’t hurt yourself,” he mutters, standing up from the table. Then he pauses, before a hand reaches out and tangles in Oikawa’s hair briefly.

“When you’re ready,” Iwaizumi says, steady and sure, “you know I’ll listen, idiot.”

Oikawa blinks up at him, surprised. Then his smile softens into something more real.

“I know, Iwa-chan.”

The early morning goes by easily, with Oikawa acting perfectly normal. He eats breakfast and teases Matsukawa about his bedhead and steals Iwaizumi’s banana milk. There’s a subdued sense of — something, at the back of Oikawa’s mind, but he can ignore it for now. It is not a big deal.

Then they head for the gym, and it _becomes_ a big deal.

Practice is — terrible, in all honesty. Oikawa is distracted, both with his attempts to keep his own emotions in control and to ignore Ushijima’s. They’re still avoiding each other, and Ushijima is respectfully keeping his distance, but pairbonds don’t care about giving you space. Oikawa’s got a hold on his scent but not on the way Ushijima feels when he watches Oikawa nail a perfect service ace. He can ignore the alpha’s gaze but not the force of his attention. It’s fucking with his head, and therefore with his abilities on the court, and it’s _pissing him the fuck off._

His only consolation is that Ushijima seems to be in the same unfortunate, unsteady boat.

(Does he take some measure of delight watching Ushijima whiff a spike, clearly diverted by Oikawa’s sudden surge of vindictive smugness? Perhaps.)

Much to his chagrin, he’s taken off the court when he flubs a toss to Iwaizumi, which is as sure a sign of trouble as anything. And Oikawa resents it — resents the fact that he isn’t up to standard, and he knows it — but he also knows when he needs to step back. His hand gets halfway to his neck before he stops himself, closing it into a fist instead.

“Go get your head straight,” Coach Irihata tells him, gentle but firm, and Oikawa sighs before nodding.

He ends up back in their sleeping room, leaning back against a stack of futons and hugging his knees to his chest. Ushijima’s jacket — which he realized earlier he’d never returned — sits crumpled in his lap. He knows what’s been causing his poor performance, and it grates at him. He’s never felt this before — this compelling _need_ to be near Ushijima, to sense his scent and feel his presence. It’s the bondmark, he knows; it’s fresh, with both of them still adjusting, and the enforced distance isn’t helping. Half his instincts are screaming for him to _go,_ to find his mate and stay with him until the initial rush of emotions has petered out. But Oikawa barely knows how he feels about Ushijima; the fact that they’re _bonded_ now—

“Didn’t I tell you not to hurt yourself,” comes a familiar voice. Oikawa looks up to find Iwaizumi watching him from the doorway, annoyed and concerned.

“Of course thinking would hurt Iwa-chan,” Oikawa replies lightly, grinning, “but the rest of us manage fine.”

He gets a whack upside the head for that, when Iwaizumi has crossed the room to come sit beside him. Oikawa’s about to stick his tongue out, but something in the way his best friend looks — he curls back around his knees with a sigh.

“You ready to talk yet?” Iwaizumi asks. His gaze is the same as it’s always been in moments like this — steady, open, and patient. Oikawa is eternally grateful that his six-year-old self had pissed off Iwaizumi Hajime into being friends.

Still, he delays briefly, slouching further with a noncommittal hum. He knows Iwaizumi will wait — won’t press unless he feels he has to — and it’s nice to have that reassurance. It helps prompt him to sigh and bury his face in his folded arms.

“I slept with Ushijima,” he admits, so muffled Iwaizumi might not have heard him. Part of Oikawa hopes he hasn’t.

But Iwaizumi, ever-reliable and well-versed in the intricacies of navigating Oikawa Tooru, simply replies, “I know.”

Oikawa shoots up, staring at his best friend in horror. “You _what?_ ”

The other boy cocks an eyebrow. “Neither of you are subtle.”

For a few seconds, Oikawa just sits there, mouth agape. Iwaizumi waits politely. There’s a bird chirping somewhere out the window.

“Oh,” the omega says faintly.

“Mmhmm.” Both Iwaizumi’s eyebrows go up. “That it?”

Again, Oikawa hesitates, gaze turned downward. One hand absently lifts to press against his neck, where he can feel the throb of the bondmark. It hasn’t let up all day, and while Oikawa loved taunting that Ushijima was an emotionless brute who only cared about winning, he knows that’s not true. There’s a surprising medley of emotions bleeding across their bond — guilt, remorse, adoration, desire; even a small, dark sense of satisfaction. But no regret, not about them.

Oikawa doesn’t think he really regrets it, either.

“He…” The omega trails off, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Bit me.”

There is a still-beat moment where sandalwood and vanilla floods the air, sharp and acrid and overwhelming. Then Iwaizumi carefully, meticulously wrestles his scent back under control, in the same way he contains his anger to the tightness of his expression.

“Did he.” The other alpha pauses, picking his words. “Force you?”

Oikawa considers things for a bit, then says, “No.”

Iwaizumi looks at him, eyes flicking over Oikawa’s face as if searching for a lie. Eventually he just nods and replies, “Okay.” Then, “so what now?”

“I… I don’t really know.” Oikawa’s face scrunches up as he leans back on the futons, hugging his chest. “I don’t — I’m obviously not _ready_ for something like this, not now and not—” he makes a vague gesture “—given everything. And the fact that it’s _Ushiwaka_ who, fine, isn’t _terrible_ but he’s still the one who keeps telling me I _should have gone to Shiratorizawa_ and keeps beating us at volleyball. And maybe I don’t hate him, but I also — I just—” He bites his lip, trying to rein in his scent, citrus bleeding distress. “I don’t know — how much of that attraction is just biology, and how much of it is… me?”

The silence that greets his rambling explanation is neither critical nor disappointed. Iwaizumi simply regards him for a few seconds, before sighing and leaning back as well. His shoulder nudges against Oikawa’s, and the omega leans into the contact gratefully. They sit like that for a while, Iwaizumi gathering his thoughts and Oikawa breathing in the comfortable, well-loved scent of his childhood best friend.

“I may not know the details — and _no,_ Shittykawa, that is not an invitation to tell me about your sex life — ugh.” Iwaizumi grimaces, then bangs his fist on Oikawa’s forehead when the omega (badly) stifles a laugh. “Shut up. Anyway, I don’t — know a lot of what’s going on, but I do know _you_ , and I do get Ushijima, sort of. And, well—” He breaks off, mouth pinched in thought. “As an opponent and a player, I hate him. I want to crush him into the floor. I want to break his arm with a spike. But as a person? I’m not — I don’t know him enough to judge, but he seems sincere enough to make this right with you.”

Oikawa raises his head at that, surprised. Iwaizumi just looks down at him, exasperated and fond and worried. He glances at the door, then huffs. “He came to me, you know. Shuffled over after their practice set, like he isn’t six-foot-two and built like a statue.” There’s a wry twist to Iwaizumi’s mouth. “He wanted to know if you were okay.”

The conversation lapses again. Oikawa slowly uncurls to sit cross-legged, borrowed jacket puddling over his thighs. He smooths it out distractedly; the fabric doesn’t smell much like Ushijima anymore, but it’s still weirdly comforting. And he tries to tell himself it’s just instinct, but at the same time, those instincts are part of him. Just like the instincts he has for volleyball.

“He’s an idiot,” he pronounces, in lieu of a real response. Iwaizumi snorts.

“Yeah he is,” he agrees, “but he’s _your_ idiot. So go talk it out, yeah?”

Oikawa levels a deadpan stare at his friend, but Iwaizumi has long mastered the act of an immovable object. So the omega just sighs and tips back onto the pile of futons with a soft _fwump._

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I will.”

In a moment born both out of weakness and the realization that he did not, in fact, have a way of messaging Ushijima — Oikawa sends Iwaizumi to tell Semi to tell Ushijima that he’s staying after the last practice sets. It works, though, and Ushijima hangs back while the Shiratorizawa team starts packing up. The distance between them sits awkwardly while they wait for everyone else to exit the gym. Oikawa does some regular serves just to have something to do.

By the time all the teams have left, he’s worked himself into a nervous fit and there are twenty balls littering the court.

“Oikawa,” the alpha says, and it echoes in the empty room. Oikawa bites his lip, gripping the ball in his hands so hard it could pop.

“Ushiwaka,” he parrots, then winces.

A pause. Then Ushijima frowns, saying slowly, “You wanted to talk.”

Oikawa’s expression scrunches, but he holds his ground. “I did.”

Further awkward silence. Oikawa rather wants to scream. Ushijima lingers at the other end of the court, clearly waiting for permission before coming any closer. It’s painful to watch, and Oikawa feels a visceral tug in his chest at the sight. He hates it, both the feeling and Ushijima’s hesitation.

“Come here,” he commands, gesturing the alpha over, and then, “come _here._ ”

Ushijima obeys as if magnetized; he crosses the court in a few big strides, ducking under the net and coming to a stop a few feet away. This close, Oikawa can _finally_ smell him — fresh-turned earth after the rain, warm and sweet. Something unspools in his chest, and he sways a little nearer. Big hands come up to steady him, holding him a careful distance away.

When Oikawa looks up, Ushijima’s watching him with — god, Oikawa can’t hold his gaze. There’s too much emotion there, and it’s overwhelming enough to feel it over the bond between them. To see the fractures in Ushijima’s expression, the relief—

(It’s devastating. Oikawa feels wrecked.)

Ushijima’s hands hover at the collar around his neck, and Oikawa leans in closer.

“Do it,” he whispers. Ushijima’s fingers are shaking as he unclasps it and lets it fall to the floor. Citrus and spice wafts into the air, mingling with earth and rain. It’s soothing, the way they fit against each other.

“I couldn’t—” Ushijima pauses, frowning. “It bothered me, that I couldn’t smell you at all. I did not like it.”

Oikawa huffs a laugh, rolling his eyes. “Big alpha brute,” he murmurs, and is rewarded by Ushijima’s expression softening, corners of his mouth turned up in a smile. Immediately, the omega scowls, although he’s not doing a good job.

“I’m still angry, you know,” he states, meeting Ushijima’s eyes. The other boy opens his mouth — to apologize, to assuage, to confess, Oikawa doesn’t know — but Oikawa shakes his head quickly. “That wasn’t — that was too far, and we both know it. I’m angry, and I will be for a while. But it — we—” He bites his lip. “I can’t bring myself to regret it. And I want — I think we can… try.”

“ _Tooru_ —” Ushijima breaks off, wincing imperceptibly. But Oikawa just raises an eyebrow, and Ushijima takes a deep breath as if bracing himself. “I will — I know I did wrong. I acted thoughtlessly and I will — take responsibility for that. I will make things right.” He wavers again, then, “I will be good to you. I _will_.”

It’s odd, seeing Ushijima like this: apprehensive, tentative, unsure. On any other day Oikawa would feel a rush of vicious satisfaction; now it’s endearing, in a frustrating sort of way. Ushijima frowns harder and Oikawa wants to smooth it away. So he does; he reaches up and presses a finger right between Ushijima’s brows, and laughs.

“You had better, you big alpha brute,” he says, playful, light. He can feel the sincerity from Ushijima, the adoration and devotion and self-reproach. And he knows there’s a lot they’ll need to work through — if they can even make this work — there’s so much that needs work — but they can try.

It’s difficult and wonky and messy, but it’s a start.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!! come say hi on social media — i'm [@redluxite](https://twitter.com/redluxite) on twitter. you can check there for details on how to request more ushioi content (or other haikyuu ships) and other ways to support my writing ^__^


End file.
